Deceit Deception & Deliverance

written by Robert C. Brewster

ONE

MONTREAL 1984

The water was as clear as glass.  The sounds, soothing and sweet as only Mother Nature can provide.  The tranquil surroundings were all encompassing.  As far as the eye could see, was an unblemished view of water and trees.  A lone figure patiently stood along the shoreline with fishing rod in hand carefully scanning the surface of the lake.  The slight hum of a small aircraft approaching in the distance was the only manmade sound spoiling a perfect moment in time.

A rainbow trout glistened in the late morning sun as it gracefully leaped in the air catching a mosquito in mid-flight.  Like a soaring hawk the person on shore pounced on the moment.  With split second timing and cat like precision, the cast was made to within inches of where the fish had been mere seconds ago.  The bait was taken and the angler artfully tugged the line and secured the hook.  As the fish fought for its life jumping sporadically to delay the inevitable the sound of the small plane grew louder as it slowly came into view.  The angler on shore looked up at the plane only long enough to watch it explode into thousands of tiny pieces that fell like rain over the pastoral setting.

            The trout now only inches from the lakeshore was carefully picked up, unhooked and then released by the long slender manicured fingers of a beautiful young woman.  Then, with the utmost of calm, she casually picked up her belongings and walked into the underbrush leaving no traces of her ever having been there.

TWO

            Tony Lamoboniefelt uncomfortable but sat patiently in the antique solid oak chair that came with the equally solid three hundred year old desk that was topped with a five-inch hand carved piece of solid oak.  It was highlighted with eight drawers that opened and closed as they were sliding on rails of butter.  Nobody knew about, except him a secret compartment was inside the desk.  Tony was quite sure of this fact since the person who told him about it was the artisan who had built it in the first place.  At least Tony thought he was, but in the last few days he was not so sure anymore.  There was a spirit who called himself “Julius” that supposedly talked to him in this very room when the rigors of being a crime boss tore and pulled at his sanity to the point, where he believed he saw and heard the ghostlike figure of Julius.

            The first night the ungodly figure had appeared six months ago, he had risen up from the center of his desk while Tony sat alone sipping on 25-year-old scotch whiskey, something he had been doing a lot of lately.  Upon seeing the image, his reaction had been gut instinct.  He’d slid open the right hand drawer closest to him and pulled out an expensive old Colt  that he’d inherited from his grandfather and fired all six shots at the apparition hoping it would disappear.  Eventually it did but it left Tony with six holes in his office wall that were not nearly as big as the ones his associates were quickly coming to believe he had in his head.  Tony was freaked out even more than his normal paranoid state of mind.  On his best days, he was impossible to be around, but the last few days, people had been avoiding him like Swine flu.  There was a valid reason of course for his present state of mind.  A week earlier, he had accomplished the impossible and everything was pointing to the fact that he was going to get away with it.  Only three people knew ‘why’ what had happened that day happened.  Now, Tony was the only one still alive who knew the ‘why’ and that secret he would take to his grave along with the extra twenty million dollars of uncut diamonds he now possessed.

            Tonight Julius was quiet and no brightly illustrated visions danced inside Tony’s head while he waited for the phone to ring.  He was thinking about how he could make the European crime bosses a believer in him.  He was sure he could parlay a new talent of his so he could one day secure his rightful place in the annals of Canadian crime history, something that was strangely important to him.  He sensed the rumble before he felt it.  The desk slowly shook and then rose about two inches from the floor before descending to its original position.  “You’re right Julius.  I will do it!  I have to do it!”

He got up from his chair and casually made his way over to his window side office bar where he poured himself another healthy dram of scotch.  He looked out into the city that was so much a part of him and one he fought daily to control from his thirtieth floor office complex penthouse suite that he had built when his construction company erected the building.  He owned it all, as well as half a dozen others; that graced the Montreal skyline.

There was something unique about his city, which made it stand out amongst the rest in Canada.  It had six major crime families, all of them from different ethnic backgrounds and traditions.  Though his organization was the largest and most feared, it was a daily struggle to maintain that position.  His word; was not infallible.  However, when it was not adhered to his enemies soon felt his wrath.  The phone rang.  Tony kept leering out the window as though he had not heard it.  It rang again.  He remained still.  It rang once more.  He turned suddenly and stared at the phone.  In fact, he glared at it with the intensity of a man possessed.  He gave the phone the evil eye and it did not ring again.

A warm smile covered Tony’s face.  He was safe and secure, at least for the moment.  He snapped up his keys from the desk, carefully took his herringbone raincoat from the rustic coat tree, and neatly folded it over his left arm.  He turned out the lights and double-checked the lock on his office door before he left.  Once outside and walking quickly between the raindrops he smiled widely before slipping inside his waiting Rolls Royce silver cloud limited edition circa 1963, which he inherited along with his empire after his father’s death.  Emilio his personal bodyguard/chauffer closed the passenger door and then opened the driver’s door, got in and sped off.  Tony should be extremely happy but he could not help being constantly pissed off by the fact his father’s peers had not paid him the respect due to a man of his position.  As far as he was concerned, the European crime bosses had shown total disrespect by not attending his father’s funeral.  At the time they had all assured Tony that their condolences were deeply felt and sincerely offered, but their presence at the service might have attracted undue attention and even jeopardize the plan his father had set in motion before his untimely demise.  This was the same plan that had made Tony twenty million dollars richer but had left some European bosses a few million poorer, as well as extremely confused and baffled.

Tony had convinced himself that they believed his story.  Why would they not believe it?  He did, and so did Julius; and for the time being the Europeans would have to accept it unless they could prove otherwise.  He knew they would be working around the clock to disprove everything he had told them.  No one had ever ripped them off before, no one ever would.  It was tradition.  It was written.  It was law.  It was their law, but not Tony’s law, not anymore.

After the bomb had ripped through the Montreal bus station killing six and injuring a dozen others, the city was stunned.  The police quickly arrested one suspect and that seemed good enough for them.  Tony found this rather convenient, not to mention coincidental.  The city’s entire police force had been far more concerned with the security precautions surrounding the upcoming Papal visit, which was then only three days away.  The bus station bombing had come as an unexpected shock to the public and the police.  Preliminary evidence seemed to indicate that this was the work of a single lunatic and most likely not connected to the Papal visit.  Even the local press, which had a reputation of fiercely hounding and harassing the cops to get a story, had eased up on this one in both official languages.  They had been advised by their superiors to keep a low profile and avoid coming out with any sensational stories that might disturb the public until the Pope had come and gone.  This was no time for bad news; it was going to be a glorious summer.  The pope was coming, the Gippson Brothers farewell tour, the Tall ships sailing from Europe to celebrate Montreal’s 350th anniversary; no one wanted to hear about  horrors, senseless murders, tragic bombings and insanity.  At that point, only Monica Archer wanted to know more about the bus station bombing.  She had no facts, no leads.  She could not even go by rumors, because there were none; all she had was this very strange gut feeling and it haunted her.

Much later that night Tony left one of the many nightclubs he owned and stepped into a dark chauffeured car.  Waiting inside the car was Antoinette Faronia, another valuable legacy he had inherited from his father.  She was not only beautiful and loving, but also extremely useful and cunning.  She was afraid of nothing and had no scruples whatsoever when it came to doing her job.